Idaho, Montana, and Oregon – August 2022 – Part One

 

please remember you can click on a photo to see a larger version & highlighted text are links to additional information

 

Prospecting for Trout

 

There must be a bit of treasure hunter in the Lady and me. My passion – Wilderness fly fishing for native trout – has rubbed off on the Lady along with the belief that the further out and off trail we go, the better the fishing will be. It is the never-ending search for a fly fishing Shangri La. We’ve found many in our explorations. How would we fare on this adventure?

 

This trip came together because of an invitation from our friends Muir Trek & Outdoor Woman to visit the renown Dutchoven Farm and Bed & Breakfast – their home in Montana’s Bitterroot Valley. It had been, “Too long,” since our last visit in 2019, they admonished. We agreed. Our stay with them will be covered in Part Two.

 

We went to work on a plan for fly fishing on the journey coming and going. A plan was easy to put together.

 

Idaho’s Cecil D. Andrus – White Clouds Wilderness was our first destination. We’ve made many trips into the White Clouds, know the area well, and were anxious to return. A thunderstorm pounded us as we drove north on highway 93 in Nevada. We found a place of solitude for our first night enroute along Salmon Falls Creek Reservoir.  The storm cleared as we set up camp and Idaho welcomed us with spectacular evening light.

 

 

 

 

 

The rough road out to this point pretty much assured we'd be alone; just as we like it.

 

 

 

Our evening walk before bed was beautiful.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Hitting the road early the next morning got us to Ketchum mid-morning. We bought fresh produce at the downtown grocery and talked with a young guide at the Orvis Shop. He joked about some of the data found on Idaho’s - Fishing Planner Website, and cautioned about believing it accurate. As our adventure progressed, the website provided us with lots of entertainment.

 

We set up camp near the Fourth of July Creek Trailhead by early afternoon. We camped here on Our last trip in 2016.

 

 

 

In the narrative of that trip, I mentioned a limerick my companions had written about me on a previous backpack trip into the White Clouds –

 

The fly fisherman from CA

his hair was starting to gray

with nymphs and dry flies

he could always get by

at the high alpine lakes where he'd play

 

We had two days of off trail hiking planned. We’d climb up into high alpine basins with unnamed lakes and prospect for cutthroat trout. After setting up camp, we hiked up to Fourth of July Lake to relax the afternoon away.

 

 

 

 

 

A new (or forgotten) wildflower caught our eye. I've identified this as a Star Gentian.

 

 

 

 

 

This was the exquisite morning view from our camp.

 

 

 

We geared up and donned our packs. We were returning to Kimmer Lake, a high lake that became legend on one of our backpack trips in the 1990’s.

Two limericks authored by my Cousin Keith (The Big Guy) from that trip –

In Kimmer Lake the Leviathan swim

trout with shoulders you'd see in a gym

they look so mysterious

and deadly serious

I doubt they'd take my fly on a whim

 

But if by luck the line should hold

and I would land a trout so bold

I'd gaze in awe

at its mighty maw

then turn him back to his watery fold

 

An exempt from my previous narrative tells the story well –

“After leaving Chamberlain Basin nestled up against the soaring southwest flank of Castle Peak, we wanted to spend one last night in the Wilderness. Our planned overnight spot changed after we chatted with a wilderness ranger on the trail. He told us about Kimmer Lake and legendary cutthroat trout. There was no trail to Kimmer Lake. It takes work to get there. The ranger pointed out a blue dot on our 7.5 minute topo. "This is it," he said. "It is not named on the map. We call it Kimmer."

After hearing a story like this we made the effort. You bet we did. We climbed into the high basin holding Kimmer Lake and made camp. Was the story true? Circling the lake, studying it, that afternoon and evening, I saw only one trout, cruising deep. It was as big as my thigh. The Big Guy and Fastshot had similar experiences. We fished hard. Not a single take. To catch one of these trout would take as much work as it took to reach this wonderful place. I was up early the next morning. With my coffee mug and fly rod, I moved slowly and watched. A large caddis fly landed on the surface. Although a trout did not rise to take it, it gave me hope. You have to be an optimist to fly fish. I tied on a caddis dry of matching size. It took a long cast to match where the caddis was. Thank god for a still morning. I waited. I waited. Nothing rose except the need to off load some of that morning coffee and silence my complaining bladder. I resisted as long as I could then lay my fly rod down and dashed a short distance away while struggling to get my pants open. That sigh of deep relief hit the same time the surface of the lake exploded. My fly was gone and my fly was open. I suddenly realized I had one free hand and hobbled fast over to my fly rod - you have to have determination to fly fish - but the trout and my 5x tippet were gone.”

 

On our return to Kimmer Lake in 2016, we saw no evidence of trout. It appeared fishless. But with such a legendary pull in our memories, it was worth coming back to again.

 

 

 

 

 

Our campsite from back in the 1990’s was unchanged with no sign of recent use. We slowly circled the lake, our eyes searching for sign of a cruising trout. Nothing. We were shocked by a sudden rise and take by a trout in the center of the lake. It sounded like a bowling ball had been dropped into the water. There was at least one leviathan cutthroat still in Kimmer. An hour later – after still no trout sighting – another bowling ball dropped into the center of the lake. We took a leisurely lunch break and thought it over.

 

“I could never put a cast that far out,” I told the Lady. “I don’t want to fish for the only trout in Kimmer. Let’s leave the cutthroat of Kimmer Lake in its place in our memories.”

 

We spent a couple of hours at Washington Lake, a lake with abundant small Brook Trout.

 

 

 

 

 

With stealth and gentle presentations, it was easy to catch as many as we’d like. We were surprised by one heavy foot long Brookie we brought to the Lady’s ghost net.

 

 

 

Our last stop to fish was Fourth of July Lake. It holds cutthroat trout.

 

 

 

The Lady carries the Nikon and the ghost net as I fish. She also spots cruising trout and points them out to me. Actually, she is a bit more demanding. “Catch that one!” she directs. I was surprised and pleased to find she was also taking photos, such as the one above. I brought a few cutthroats to the Lady’s waiting net. The first was a heavy, healthy 11”er.

 

 

 

The nicest was a heavy cutthroat of 13 inches that put up a nice tussle before being carefully released “back to its watery fold.”

 

 

 

The cutthroat of Fourth of July Lake are healthy fish in good condition.

 

It had been a good day but we had not found that elusive Shangri La.

 

We enjoyed a long evening walk around the trailhead area as the sun set.

 

 

 

 

 

Early on the trail to Phyllis Lake the next morning we met an older gentleman hiking down from the lake. He had a backpack with a fly rod attached. We chatted. He reported, “There are no trout in Phyllis.”

The Lady brought up the Idaho fishing planning website. “It says it was planted with Westslope Cutthroat trout in 2017 and again in 2020.”

“I read that too,” he replied. “There are no trout in Phyllis.” He continued, “Did did notice that it said 276 westslope cutthroat trout were planted in 2020?”

“Yes, we noticed that.” The Lady replied. “And several other lakes got the exact same number of trout, 276.”

“Yes.” He went on, “I saw a pdf. file that said something about what is reported is ‘a plan’ and they might get around to it. I’ll give them the benefit of the doubt.”

“It’s a lot more fun to find out for ourselves,” the Lady added. “We’re going cross country and climbing to higher lakes.”

“I went up to the lower lake yesterday,” the gentlemen reported. “No fish. So, I did not make the hard climb to the higher lake.”

“We’re going up. Even if there’s no trout, it will make a beautiful hike. Do you want me to send you a telepathic message if we find big cutthroat up there?”

“No, please don’t,” the fellow answered. “I did not go up there. I don’t want to find out there were fish.”

We chatted for several more minutes, sharing tales about fishing many of the same areas in the White Clouds. He had not heard of Kimmer Lake.

 

Since it was a short, little over 10-mile round trip, hike to the highest lake and we’d wade when at the lake and fishing, we decided to hike up in our wading sandals. We did not know we’d be tackling the “Chute of Death.”

 

Although the high lakes we wished to reach were “off trail” – did not have a trail to it shown on the maps – most probably have some sort of “use trail” that leads to them. They can be hard to find, as it was in this case. We followed one obvious path that led to a cliff. We searched for sign of a trail that led up or around. There was nothing. The lower lake, we knew from the USGS topo map, was on the other side of the ridge the cliff face led up. Up we went. It was nothing we could not tackle, we were well within our comfort zone, but those wading sandals lacked the “bite” our boots give. It took careful foot placement and we did not want to start to slide. We called it the “Chute of Death.” We topped out on the ridge at the top of the cliff.

 

 

 

The lower lake was far below. The Lady, with her “see mores,” located a faint use trail below. The opposite side of the ridge was steep loose talus – the “Slide of Death” led down to the use trail.

 

 

 

Now it was up, up, up.

 

 

 

 

 

The unnamed upper lake lay in a steep basin.

 

 

 

Steep loose rock defined most of the shore line. We scanned for cruising trout. We looked for insects on the water. We watched for a trout’s rise. Finally it came, and rings moved out across the water from the rise form. We moved to an easier shoreline; two large cutthroats moved out from shore as we approached. It was time to fly fish.

 

 

 

I did not see any but the “click, click, click” of grasshoppers was easily heard around us. I tied on a size 12 grasshopper pattern on the end of a long fine 6x tippet. The Lady “put on her fish eyes” – getting use to how trout look underwater in a new body of water. With patience, the cutthroats began to appear. The first trout was a nice heavy 10 incher, a Westslope cutthroat.

 

 

 

“Are you one of the 276 from 2020?” I asked the fish as we released the trout “back to its watery fold.”

 

I began to learn the cruising patterns of the larger trout we saw. I placed my fly well ahead of the trout and the technique worked well. The largest trout brought to net was a fine 14” cutthroat.

 

 

 

We caught several trout. The Lady had a wonderful time spotting trout, directing me to the one she wanted caught, netting the fish, and being sure the trout was fully revived before being released. And we were alone. Our strategy was working. We saw several larger trout. We had found our Shangri La.

 

 

 

We were alone until 1500 hrs. Three men appeared with a dog. They all carried fly rods and were on the opposite side of the lake from us. The dog wanted in the water but the men did not want their fishing disturbed so they tied the dog in the shade far up from shore. The dog’s continuous loud whining echoed in the basin. It did not stop. The men did nothing to stop it. The aura had changed and it was time for us to leave. As we passed, the oldest man – who proudly announced he had brought his friends up to fish this special lake – wanted to know why we were up here. “All the years I’ve been up here I’ve never seen another person. What are you doing up here?” I decided against peeing on a tree and marking my territory. His was a question that really did not need answering. “This is a fine lake,” I quietly replied. In the meantime, a large trout rose to take one of the younger men’s grasshopper fly. “Have you been usin’ hoppers?” the younger man asked. “Want me to net it?” the Lady called down to him. “I’m the net girl! I love to net trout. That’s a nice one!”

The fellow overdid it, showing off to the Lady with the big fish on the end of his line. He lost the trout.

 

We said goodbye to the men and climbed out of the basin. We turned and said goodbye to this new favorite lake.

 

 

 

The Lady did not send a telepathic message to the gentleman from earlier in the day.

 

It was a lovely walk back down out of the basin. We located the faint use trail that eliminated the Chute of Death.

 

 

 

The white glowing limestone high summits give this place its name, the White Cloud Peaks.

 

 

 

We’ve been to the top of many of the pictured peaks. The White Clouds is a special place to us, filled with many amazing memories.

 

 

 

Although it was late in the day, we made the hike over to Phyllis Lake.

 

 

 

We saw no evidence of trout.

 

We packed up and left the White Clouds early the next morning as we wanted to take our time getting closer to Montana. We had an obstacle ahead of us, the Moose Fire. The fire was active and was burning along highway 93, our preferred route to the Bitterroot Valley.

 

We turned up the Yankee Fork Road to the ghost town of Custer. We last visited Custer in 2011. On this trip we stopped at the small cemetery east of town. Cemeteries often give a unique perspective on a town’s history.

 

 

 

 

 

The most poignant story is that of the infant Julian Thompson.

 

 

 

Little Julian suffered from seizures when he was fed. His mother found the only remedy was to put him in a bath of warm water. That calmed him and the seizures. She kept a kettle of warm water ready on the stove. A friend was over, helping, and unknowingly used the water to wash dishes. When Mrs. Thompson ran for the water to stop the seizures, it was gone. She ran down the street to the saloon in hope of finding heated water. Upon her return, it was too late, her son had died.

 

Snow avalanches in this steep valley took several victims.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

There are those who find it hard to cope and choose a permanent solution to a, most likely, temporary problem.

 

 

 

Another child lost.

 

 

 

I could find no additional information on this person or his death - the most colorful grave marker in the cemetery.

 

 

 

We stopped along the Yankee Fork (of the Salmon) River for lunch. We carried our chairs down by the river to relax. The Lady – she had her “fish eyes” working – spotted three large trout working a riffle. “Time for you to fish!” she announced. Lunch could wait.

 

 

 

 

 

The large fish were not interested in my offerings or technique. I did catch one of the fattest 6” rainbow trout I’ve ever brought to hand. It was a remarkable little fish.

 

Corkscrew Grade took us down to Challis. The smoke from the Moose Fire had settled in the valley. The air in Salmon was worse. Our couple of possible overnight spots would be unpleasant so we continued north on 93. We turned east on highway 45 and drove the short distance to Chief Joseph Pass. There was blue sky straight above. A Forest Road took us south on the Continental Divide and we found a cozy spot to camp.

 

 

 

After set up, I walked to the front of the truck. “Look, I’m in Montana!” I exclaimed. “I like it in Montana!”

“Well,” the Lady announced, “You have to come back into Idaho if you want your dinner.”

“Yeah, I want dinner,” I said and returned to Idaho. I added, “When we get up in the middle of the night, we get to decide whether to go in the Atlantic or Pacific!”

I don’t believe the Lady enjoys the Continental Divide as much as I do. The road was also a section of the Continental Divide Trail.

 

 

 

The smoke from the Moose Fire was heavy on the western horizon.

 

 

 

We woke the next morning after a quiet night. No immigrants from either state were sneaking across the border here. Driving a few feet, we were officially in Montana. We headed down the Bitterroot Valley to the Dutchoven Farm and Bed & Breakfast.

 

Our adventure continues. Please click here for - Part Two.